


Crabwise

by baylop



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Boners, IN SPACE!, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pre-Guardians of the Galaxy (2014), Pre-Relationship, Rescue Missions, Sexual Frustration, Trust Issues, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 13:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11533659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baylop/pseuds/baylop
Summary: Yondu is new to a lot of things: his captaincy, involving his crew in his mission plans, and (maybe) seeing a lanky Xandarian in a different light.





	Crabwise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YondudeUdonta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YondudeUdonta/gifts).



> A very happy birthday to DestielWincest, who requested “Kraglin being a bamf and annihilating people and Yondu being super into him killing”. In terms of timeline, this takes place pre-exile/before taking Peter Quill, where Kraglin has yet to earn the rank of first mate.

 

Solo gigs are always a good time. At the heart of things, Ravaging is about freedom, and there ain’t no better way to thumb down a mortal coil than by flinging yourself alone against the universe and stealing whatever it sets on display. With nearly a full standard as captain underneath him now, Yondu don’t get those solitary jaunts often, what with the constant presses of securing work and keeping an entire crew fast on the draw hogging his waking hours.

So when word about a pair of Dantu stones on Cancrius III makes its way to the _Eclector_ , it’s a perfect opportunity to strike out alone, since Kigorians, particularly the crime syndicate that’s said to have the stones, are hella dumb.

Yondu points this out to Dorbin and Tullk before he goes intel hunting planetside —  that all he has to do is loudly ask around in the right sectors of a big city like Potamon, make a big stink of things, get roughhoused a lil’, and get those Kigor crabs feeling cocky enough to loosen their lips. Then bingo, got yourself some rocks to fetch.

And really, Yondu only speaks to them at all about where he's headed to avoid being bothered mid-trek. Because it ain't like he needs their _permission_ to take the job, or any job for that matter. No siree. 

(Stakar’s highfalutin idea of Ravager decision making by committee was one of the first things he’d nixed as a captain; what was the point of being in charge if you had to follow all those pesky checks and balances?) 

But apparently, while Yondu’s first mate is content to be clued in onto his plans without further yapping, his quartermaster ain’t.

“Might we put together a wee team for this, Captain?” Tullk dares to wonder aloud. “Round up a few Kigor punks and get ‘em talkin’ that way?”

“Now look here, if we get to beatin’ Kigorians, ain’t no guarantee they’ll know squat about the location of the stones. Reckon we’d have to go through several rounds of friendly interrogatin’ and multiple Kigorians before we get the goods. That's more hassle than it’s worth. Better to go straight to the heart of their lil’ inner circle and get the info that way.”   

Tullk scratches his beard. “Aye. Gonna get the tar kicked outta ye though.” 

“Only ‘til I get what I need...and by the by, I don’t figure those crabs are known for their _kickin’_ ,” Yondu chuckles. Shrugs. “It does this pretty face o’ mine some good to remember what it’s like to take a punch or three. Been so long…”

(Yondu fights to keep his smile alive as his mind tries to drag him to a time before his yaka, a place and a life buried long ago.)

But Tullk ain’t no fun. Implores him to keep his comm line open in that mindful way of his, and recommends leaving a few crewed M-ships on standby too.

“All the better tae get those Dantu stones swiftly, once ye locate ‘em, Captain.”

(Yondu ain’t buying it, but allows it all the same. Mostly because letting the crew feel useful from time to time keeps up morale.)

In that same spirit, Yondu doubles his generosity and lets Dorbin and Tullk pick who gets assigned as his backup.

Shit choices or not, ain’t like it’s gonna matter a whit.

 

*

 

So away he goes, into the greasy backstreets of Potamon and right into the thick of Kigor gang territory, pretending to be the worst would-be thief ever. It’s an easy task since he ain’t got a far-flung reputation that precedes him on sight alone, _not_ _yet_ , and again, the crabs of Cancrius III are too stunted in their executive functioning bits to suss out why a lone Centaurian would be up on their turf inquiring about glittery stones.

It don't take much before he’s snatched up, beaten until he blacks out, and jolts awake in a dingy hidey-hole tied to a chair and surrounded by unwashed Kigorian grunts. The punches start afresh from all sides and manage to burn, what with the Kigorians having serrated edges to their claws. 

The sting is surprising more than anything else.

Yondu smiles, swallows down blood, and lets them keep at it, because it's soon made plain that not only are his captors stupid, but they’re _chatty stupid_. As in, like-to-hear-the-sounds-of-their-own-shrill-voices stupid —  and that's only a mite strange for a species fabled for its close-quartered hive telepathy.  

It ain’t long before Yondu gets what he needs, just by letting them flex their gobs.

“The rumors you followed here are old, I’m afraid. We’ve long since stowed the Dantu,” one eventually sneers, mandibles cracking around the words. “They’ve added a nice flourish to the eyes of our beloved Ranina statue. Catches the light as the sun rises over the Ucides shoreline, a true sight to behold. So take heart in your final moments, trespasser —  that which you’ve failed to capture has taken on a purpose the likes of which you’ll never appreciate.”

Yondu manages to starve off an eye roll. “You’re tellin’ me you took stones sellable to the Tivan Group, stones that go for _100,000 flarkin’ units each_...and shoved ‘em in a fuckin’ statue...just to make its eyes look pretty?”

(Yondu is unabashedly all for shinies, but not the kinds that look better padding his multiple bank accounts.)

“We don’t have to justify our actions to _you,_ blue fiend.” Another voice, another punch. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Sure,” Yondu agrees, spitting a tooth. “Clear as crystal —  that y’all are idiots.” His chin nudges the comm link sewn into his jacket collar, not because he needs the support, but because he wants a reprieve from their grindsaw voices.

(The fact that the Ucides coastline is around 5,000 bules away on foot, assuming he ain't been dragged outta Potamon city, ain’t got nothing to do with it.)

“Tullk, you still with me? Tell our boys to go pluck some shiny eyeballs. Ranina statue. Ucides coast. Got that?”

Tullk’s voice is quick to crackle in response. “Aye, Captain. Pluggin’ the coordinates now and readyin' the ships. We’re comin’ for ye, too. Got at least one impatient laddie here who’s ready tae... _oh_...ah, well, looks like yer backup’s already set out for ye.”

“Aw, no need for that,” Yondu drawls, absorbing another punch with a laugh as the Kigor crowd him from all sides, their realization dawning in frenzied collectivity. He raises his voice to be heard over their shouting about who gets to kill him _first_ , which again, makes no dang sense at all. “Takes the enjoyment outta things, Tullk. Call whoever’s comin’ back...lookin’ to skewer some crabs here by myself. Numbnuts didn’t even bother to get rid of my weapons, and I —  ”

A crash from above gets the Kigor grunts shifting their harmonious objective of arguing to sputtering at whatever’s landed behind him, claws raised in united agitation. Yondu hears the familiar thump of Ravager boots. Still bound to the chair, he can’t see who it is, but a spray of blaster-grade plasma lights up the room and the bodies around him crumple in a messy chorus.

The subsequent quiet don't last long.

“Cap’n? Are you…”

Kraglin hovers in his line of sight like the scraggly beanpole he is, expression earnest and owlish and dopey all at once.

Yondu ain’t in the mood for his careful concern, much less his help. Don't need it neither.

But apparently the universe ain’t listening today.  

“They hurt you,” Kraglin grits, leaning down to cut apart the ropes. The long knife he wields separates the thick twine like roasted ombi meat falling off the bone. Reversing the blade, he makes to touch at Yondu’s face, right over where most of the blood is trickling down. Yondu’s ready to snap at him for his fussing, but Kraglin seems to think better of it at the last moment, haltingly pulling back his hand and vibrating with an odd intensity.

This close, Yondu can see every fleck of grey in his irises and the pale pink of his bottom lip tugged between his teeth.

Yondu scowls. Glares at the rest of Kraglin's ugly mug like he’s the most moronic person he’s seen all day, even when factoring their current company of fresh corpses littering the ground. “They _tried_ to.”

Because what did Kraglin think was gonna happen? Yeah he’s a lil’ thrashed, big deal. It ain’t no more than a tickle compared to what the Kree Uppers always had waiting for him at Base after a bout of his personal brand of insubordination, so —   

“They _hurt you_ ,” Kraglin repeats, stilting every word like it rubs him raw to say it. His breathing picks up and he rises to his full height —  and _huh_ , sometimes Yondu forgets just how tall Kraglin really is. Kinda gets outdone by the overall gauntness of him, especially since he’s usually trailing behind Yondu most days, awkward and occasionally moony-eyed when he thinks Yondu ain't looking.

Hostile shouting picks up from somewhere outside, draws near. The lone door to the room gets rammed to splinters. _Finally_. Yondu readies to whistle, to push himself off the chair and show what he does best, but then Kraglin yells.  

It ain't scary or nothing, but Yondu ain't ever heard him ruffled as such. The newness of it paired with the sight of Kraglin's whole body going bowstring taut throws him off.

(Or at least, that's what he'll later tell himself in the privacy of his cabin.)

The Kigor grunts force the door wide enough to wedge two bodies through at a time. The duos squeeze inside in rapid succession but they don’t get far, because Kraglin sets off another few rounds of blaster plasma, targeting the soft eggy spaces between shell plates and being a far better shot than Yondu remembers.

When the last cartridge sputters and the grunts keep coming, he becomes a snarling smear of red that rips through them, dodging claw snaps and responding with a flurry of silver slashes, knife metal piercing carapaces and dissecting leg meat with equal vigor. Crab limbs crunch as they’re cleaved, with shrill screams sinking under the weight of each other as they all fall forever. Kigor bodily fluids fling in every direction as blood splatters up to the ceiling in sweeping arcs and visceral juices squelch on the floor. Improbably, more daggers flash into existence from hidden pockets and dance together, swirling and singing like whiplashes as they slice through rank air.  

It’s...Yondu ain't got a word for it, the tingling in his belly that flits up his chest and bats around his ribcage. Everything goes all muggy until there’s nothing beyond Kraglin’s hollering and the sanguine blur of his leathers in motion as carved Kigor bits go flying. It’s a long stretch of opposites to follow as Kraglin whirls his body around for all it’s worth, smooth yet frantic, furious yet controlled, always moving, always driving. Quick and deadly, thrusting against a glossy canvas of quivering orange flesh.

Perfect. 

When it ends, and only because there ain't nothing of the Kigor grunts moving no more, Kraglin stands knee-deep in a collection of orphaned appendages, his knives —   _five? six?_ —   jutting out of exoskeleton pieces pinned to the walls. Two more blades stay gripped in his hands, poised and ready as the smell of ammonia dampens the room. Kraglin faces the door as if daring another grunt to burst through and find its fate, shoulder blades pinched together and body heaving with the effort to stay upright.

He’s drenched in blue, dripping and sticky with it, but in the dim lighting it’s hard to tell Xandarian blood from Kigorian. His jumpsuit is shredded in places and there’s an eyestalk plastered to the side of his head.

And it's...

Yondu blinks. Remembers to breathe.

The yaka arrow sits unsummoned and untouched atop the pile of Yondu's things at the front of the room, the only space unmarred by death, as if intentionally so. His throat is dry, and he has to fight to form words that don’t taper off into a series of clicks and grunts as warmth spreads traitorously up to his cheeks, spreads south and pools, because he ain’t got a reference for _this_.

“Think it’s done,” Yondu finally manages, proud of the evenness of his voice, the tone that makes it seem like he's idly mentioning the weather and offers no indication of just how _hard_ he is right now, trembling against the urge to drag the heel of his palm where he needs it most. He doesn't trust himself to speak again until there’s nothing for Kraglin to see, for Kraglin to _know_. “You...you did real good.” 

When Kraglin shyly stumbles around to face him, Yondu feels that awful warmth steam up again, feels it leap to the tips of his ears, and can only hope the shitty lighting is hiding whatever the fuck his face looks like right now.

“Yeah?” Kraglin croaks, goofy grin splitting wide as every gret of lethal intent leeches away. It's a sight Yondu don’t want nobody else to see. A smile for him alone, a secret trapped close.

 

*

 

Back on the _Eclector_ , Yondu is acutely aware of the roving eyeballs that for once ain't directed his way. A sharp order to Oblo gets the ship on course to the rendezvous point to where Yulio, Boke, and the rest of Dorbin and Tullk’s handpicked squadron are waiting with the stones. Once that’s done, Yondu tugs on Kraglin’s elbow. They trudge through the bowels of the fourth quadrant in companionable silence until Kraglin realizes they’re headed to the med bay.

“Uh...gettin’ them bruises of yours looked at, then? M’glad, Cap’n.”

Yondu huffs. “No need. Just sportin’ some temporary colors, is all. I'm droppin’ _your_ ass off for Meera to look at, not mine.”

(Because he still can’t determine how much of the blood Kraglin’s coated in is his own, and he knows most of his crew likes to pretend the med bay ain’t a real place at all.)

When they get there, Yondu makes sure Kraglin gets a suitable cocktail guaranteed to knock him out proper.

“Don’t wanna rest, Cap’n,” Kraglin mumbles, still in his torn leathers and eyes already drooping like he’d been waiting for the permission to do so. “M’fine. Don’t need no patchin’ up neither. Gotta finish the mission report and check with Villian and Oblo about —  ”

“This ain’t about what you _want_ , Obfonteri. Can’t have you oozing blood trails down my hallways. Slippin’ hazard for the crew.”  

“Yes, sir,” Kraglin acquiesces, voice a dwindling whisper. “Whatever you say, Cap’n. Whatever y’want, I’ll do it.”

And Yondu wants...

Here in the med bay, barely hidden from Meera and her attendants by a flimsy cubicle curtain, Yondu wants a lotta things. Things of the sort he ain’t entertained outside of the night rotation, when any newfangled imaginings can be blamed on the lull of fatigue and general horniness.

Things like Kraglin sinking to the burnished floor and mouthing the insides of Yondu’s thighs through the leather, spidery fingers curling over his hipbones. Like Kraglin stepping out of his bloodied jumpsuit and bending over the med cot, spreading himself for Yondu to taste. Kraglin riding him, writhing as the chitin shavings tangled in his hair shimmer real nice under the downlights...or...or maybe Kraglin taking _him_ , patiently working him open in the way Yondu's only let the high-end lovebots on Wilamean try so far.

Do the things Yondu ain’t never done with a living person.

But right now, Yondu settles for watching Kraglin’s eyelashes flutter shut, cheek nuzzling into the pillow and breathing evening out into soft puffs. And if he lingers a bit by taking in how Kraglin’s lips part just a smidge as he sleeps, how his muscles go all lax and unassuming, there ain’t nobody around who’ll dare to tell him he can’t.

 

 

 

 


End file.
